


Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

by kinglyace



Series: Crossing Paths [1]
Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Whump, angry medic tells off protag, sam takes a tumble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-29 11:44:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21409651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinglyace/pseuds/kinglyace
Summary: The life of a porter is hard and their work never ending. From Point A to Point B to Point C and back again, without so much as a good night's rest and a warm meal. It's a thankless job really.Tl;dr: Sam gets sick because he's shit at taking care of himself in a world that's still learning to help each other.
Series: Crossing Paths [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547038
Comments: 37
Kudos: 236





	1. One foot in front of the other

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The last time I fell in love this fast with a series was when FFXV came and hit me across the head with the Chocobros. So I'm here to spread the good word of sickfic and whump because no one else has yet here. Also I was going to post this as a whole and not separate chapters, but I'm weak for that instant validation y'know.

The rocky landscape was blurred at the edge of his vision, fading out as he trudged tirelessly down the slope and to the stream ahead. Every step was a chore, like he was wading through mud with cement shoes. He paid no mind to the roar of the wind as it battered at his face, bringing with it the promise of Timefall in a few short minutes. He wanted nothing more than to stop, let the load on his back down and ease his aching spine. But the distribution center was just ahead, its white triangular head jutting out of the green landscape to spear the sky and clouds and promising within it the safety of a dry private room.

Sam Porter Bridges was exhausted, really. Even BB was at the end of its rope, squinting angrily up at him with beady black eyes through the container. He couldn’t quite pin down when last they’d stayed longer than a few hours at a distribution center, his memories loosely strung together and hard to separate. His head was throbbing slightly at the effort and he squinted at the pain, trying to push back through sheer force of will... and missed a step.

The world spun as his boot hit a rock hidden just beneath a clump of tall grass, twisting painfully and sending him head first toward the river and its rocky bank. One hand shot up to grab at his shoulder strap, trying to yank his balance back into place while the other swung out wildly beside him. It just wasn’t enough though, the stack of ceramic filled containers on his back arching over his head and yanking him by the rack forward. Sam tasted dirt, rock, and blood as he ate ground. BB cried out and he twisted his torso just in time to prevent dashing BB against the hard bank, and instead his shoulder took the brunt of his weight. Containers tumbled from his rack and splashed into the cold river, one disappointingly breaking into pieces because it was little more than a thin layer of rust that he just hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet.

The thought of a bed sounded good to Sam right now as he lay in the mud, trying to spit debris from his mouth and wondering faintly if he’d lost another tooth. BB was gurgling angrily at him, and he could only lift a heavy hand to absentmindedly pat at the kid’s container. It didn’t soothe BB at all, but it was hard to bring himself to properly rock the kid. He’d have to sit up for that and right now it seemed too hard. Every thread of muscle was burning and screaming, and there was a concerning twitchy feeling building around his knees. 

“Just give me a moment kid,” he mumbled and BB grumbled (gurgled?) at him, but quieted just a bit. He debated again just falling asleep right here on the ground, but a low rumble in the distance reminded him of oncoming rain and the threat of BT’s. He just needed to grab his cargo and cross the shallow river; an easy enough task.

Sitting up is the worst, only accomplished by trying to drag himself up the river bank just enough to get his legs back under him and trying not to vomit as the ground kept tilting beneath him. He’s had bad falls before, worse than this even, but the lightness in his head isn’t good. Neither is the stream of blood that blinds his right eye once his head is up. At least he could sit in the shower, no problem.

Sam’s legs wobbled as he made his way down the river, grumbling as he bent to pick up dented cargo and slide it back onto his carefully arranged stack. Three were gone completely, likely downstream by now and at the mercy of another porter. They were only recovered metals and not an actual delivery, but it annoyed Sam anyway. He’d fought off two MULE assholes for those and now the fruit of his labor has been literally washed away.

The water is chilly when he finally steps foot in it to cross, his shoulders properly throbbing under the weight of improperly stacked crates and cases. He doesn’t care because it’s only fifty feet to the distribution center entrance and the smell of rain is starting to fill his nose. At least the cold water helps to clear his head, just enough that this time he pays attention to where his feet are and he doesn’t make another spectacular face plant. 

Rain starts to fall as Sam makes his way into the heart of the distro, the darkness a welcome reprieve for his headache and tired eyes. Completing a delivery has never felt better but he still feels heavy despite the fact there’s only twenty pounds left on his back. It’s only a temporary state of mind, Sam tells himself as the chiral projection shudders into existence.

“Hey, you’re already here? Wow, you are as good as they say,” the operator, one he doesn’t recognize, says as they pop up. The projection shudders and suddenly they seem concerned.

“You look pretty rough. Run into BT’s?”

“I fell,” Sam grumbles because that’s all that happened. The operator doesn’t look convinced, but they don’t press him. The only thing more widespread than BT’s was Sam’s reputation for being less talkative than a brick wall.

“Well, thanks for getting the medicine. This’ll help us a lot- whoa, HEY!”

Sam isn’t sure what happens next because he blinks and suddenly he’s looking up at the vast rafters that make up the distro’s ceiling. The chiral projection of the operator kept wavering at the edge of his vision, the operator trying to see where Sam was. They were yelling, but he can’t make out the words through the ringing that’s filling his head. He just needed a couple minutes of shut eye, and he’d be fine… just fine.


	2. Knitting and Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly, medical personnel still exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Instead of working on a resource paper, I decided to spent 20 minutes uploading what I had of this fic because I need that sweet sweet validation. It's been a rough semester.

The private rooms were never made for more than one person, a product of how sparse face-to-face human interaction had become in the wake of the Death Stranding. So Cross found themselves uncomfortably squashed into a chair, waiting for Sam Porter Bridges to wake up. They occupied themselves with a pair of chiral coated needles and some spare yarn, the quiet click and swish reassuring in the sterile room. Cross would pause every time Sam would twitch or moan, soft pleading words barely falling from his lips. A dream or, more likely, a nightmare. 

The door to the room opened and Cross only cast a quick glance over their shoulder to confirm it was the Porter they’d come with.

“So?” Cross began, keeping their voice low.

“Told us to wait, do what we need to help.”

“How’s your eye?”

“Hurts like a bitch. I’d hate to try and fight him when he’s conscious,” the porter complained, rubbing at his fresh black eye. He backed from the room, muttering about needing to talk with an operator before Cross could offer to at least look at it.

Whatever. At least Cross could start filing their report at least. They paused knitting to bring their cuff to life, the soft blue screens blinking in the open air.

“Start log: Medical Rescue of one Sam Porter Bridges. Date is, uuuhh… we’ll come back to that,” they started, taking back up their needles.

“I was contacted by BRIDGES for redirect to the distro south of Lake Knot City from route to Mountain Knot City. Operator Mat witnessed the patient collapsing without warning within the distro center during delivery, after noticing severe wounds. Patient was noted as regaining and losing consciousness multiple times until our arrival, and was unable to articulate any information upon my arrival. Patient became combative when approached, and attacked my Porter guide. Aggression is attributed to the patient’s unwell state, and not true anger. I sedated him with a sleep dart to prevent further injury to any party, but patient has yet to wake as of recording. 

I catalogued the following injuries and ailments: right ankle sprain, chafing on shoulders and torso, presumably from cargo rack. Deep cut on right side of forehead and other minor scrapes. Scans and cuff information suggests severe muscular damage and organ stress, which I theorize may have led to the patient’s collapse. The patient’s BB unit was also extremely stressed upon our arrival, but has returned to regular levels with the aid of the private room. I will catalogue any further developments and observations during the duration of my care of the patient.”

Cross tapped the cuff to dismiss the completed log just as Sam began to shift and grumble, heralding that he was finally awake and hopefully conscious.

“Morning sunshine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Did you know cayenne and black pepper have the fun effect of setting your tongue on fire when combined to season chicken? Next time I'll cut back on the black pepper.


	3. Unwilling Companions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Cross start to talk, and Sam gets the lovely news of mandatory bed rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I haven’t felt this enamored with a fic in ages so I’m gonna ride that high while I can lmao. I think it helps that I don’t make myself meet length requirements and just kinda go with what I feel fits per chapter. Also I don’t k ow of anyone has noticed, this is very much not beta read. Go forth and enjoy my brain indulgence!

The Beach was as grey and desolate as ever, the corpses of blackened whales and schools of fish littering it’s endless strip of dark grey sand. The roiling mass of heavy rain clouds churned above Sam, blocking even the mere suggestion of a sun. He was neither warm nor cold but the air felt thick, humid without heat. It’s little comfort to his naked self, but he can’t expect much with the Beach.

He expects to see Amelie pop into existence again, like she does every other time he’s come here. He walks one way and then the other, leaving tracks in his wake but she never comes. It’s just him, one man on a beach of death that would never fade. 

~~

Sam wakes to find himself aching again, a consistent reminder that washes over him in neatly timed throbbing waves. The light of the room is too bright and impossible to avoid, making his eyelids burn red and hot. Whoever designed this place with bright white LED’s was an asshole.

He slowly realizes he’s on his back, with one thin blanket thrown over him and a half deflated pillow shoved under his head. They don’t ease the pain but it’s almost comforting- until he can’t remember how he got to the bed in the first place. It’s a haze, the last thing he remembers is talking to an operator and wishing for a hot shower and a long nap. There’s flashes in-between but it’s just a blur to his tired mind.

“Morning sunshine.”

The voice that greets Sam isn’t familiar, far too low for Deadman and not hard enough to be Die-Hardman. His body protests the thought of even trying to turn over, so he settles for trying to move his head instead and taking the chance to crack one eyelid just enough.

It takes Sam a moment too long to realize that the red suit with BRIDGES printed on it means that they’re a medic, a rare sight outside of the cities. He can barely make out the grey streaked brown hair peeking from beneath a knitted beanie, one jagged scar curving under the left eye, and the soft way the medic smiles to try and ease him. He spies a familiar glowing blue BRIDGES cuff on their right wrist, another signal that they are friend and not an enemy.

“Can you tell me your name?” they ask, setting aside the pile of fabric and needles in their lap. They don’t stand nor make any move closer, but merely fix him with a focused gaze. Sam’s glad they don’t move closer- he wants his space.

“Sam Porter Bridges,” he manages to croak out though his mouth feels far too dry and the words hurt coming out. His tongue feels like a lump of leather between his teeth, like he sucked down a container of salt.

“Do you know where you are?”

“The distro... “ it takes him a minute to gather the words, slippery to take hold of and remember how to say them.

“South of Lake Knot.” The medic seems pleased with his response and nods, hand floating to their cuff to make a note of the conversation.

“Very good. Can you tell me what you last remember?” Sam told them, and the medic again seemed pleased with his response.

“Now, do you understand why I’m here?” 

Sam squinted at the medic but they only stared at him expectantly with hands neatly clasped in their lap. The question felt like a trap, so he opted to say nothing and hope the sullen silence would dissuade them.

“You collapsed- literally blacked out on your feet and couldn’t recover without medical aid. You are extremely lucky this didn’t happen while you were in the field, and even luckier that I was even remotely close by. You may be a repatriate, but going out like this? A shitty way to go, even for a Porter.”

The medic finally stood and walked to the front of the bed, keeping a solid five feet between them and the edge of the bed. 

“You’re exhausted, in the literal sense of the word. Your cuff data says you haven’t spent more than three hours consecutively sleeping for nearly twenty hours of work, you haven’t been reaching your caloric needs, and the fun part? Having DOOMs means you get the backlash twice as hard,” the medic listed, fixing Sam with a hard stare.

“And because of this, you’ve been put on mandatory rest for a week. I would have preferred a month, but at least this will prevent your organs from shutting down: painfully, I might add. So until further notice, you’re on bedrest. Minimal movement, unless you want your muscles to give out.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest, to claim that he would be fine in a couple hours, and to push himself to sit up to show that, really, he was fine.

A flash of bright white pain exploded behind his eyes as he tried and his arm muscles screeched as he jerked awkwardly, aborting after barely a second and sending him to the floor in an ungainly roll.

Pressure met his shoulders and torso, cold and hard, just before his face met hard tile. He tried to jerk, instinctively trying to pull away from whatever was touching him, but found steel where he thought human hands would be. The medic had surged forward, hands outstretched to catch him but they had stopped just short. From the bulky packs around their waist came four skeletal looking hands, made of thin metal and jointed almost like an odradek. 

“I don’t think I even need to say I told you so… but I told you so.”

Gently, Sam found himself rolled back onto the bed and tucked in by robotic hands. They were quick and light, barely brushing against his skin before withdrawing and waiting next to the medic.

“BRIDGES helped design these for me after you punched out my Porter guide,” they explained, moving their hand and the robotic ones followed along. 

“Great for helping to handle and treat patients though, I’ll definitely be using this for the foreseeable future.”

The arms fold back neatly into their packs and the medic returns to their seat, satisfied for the moment that Sam won’t try to leap from the bed again.

“Can I get your name at least?”

“It’s Cross.”

Sam musters a faint snicker because of course no one who worked with BRIDGES has a normal name. 

“Laugh all you want Mr. I-have-two-last-names-that-are-just-my-job-names.”

Sam shuts up after that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: (ง’̀-‘́)ง He’s not even in this fic, but who else wants to fight Higgs? He’s such a smarmy villain... I both love and hate him.  
And I want to thank everyone who has commented so far! I love being in a fresh fandom, and y’all have been super nice!


	4. Protein Fueled Knitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having to share a small room with another person isn't Sam's idea of relaxing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The more I watch Death Stranding, the more I want to protect Sam because christ, someone give this man a break. I'm not at the end yet, but JSE should be done with his play through soon. I want the game for myself so bad, so luckily Winter holiday is right around the corner.

Cross is… an okay person, and the first day of his mandatory rest is almost torturous. 

It’s awkward enough to not like being touched, and even more so when Cross  _ has _ to touch him. The robotic hands don’t make his skin blossom with hives, but the tight feeling in his chest and the invisible hand around his throat won’t go away all the same. It’s uncomfortable down to every last second, despite how gentle Cross is.

At least Cross is understanding, keeping their eyes pointed elsewhere anytime Sam needs help to the bathroom because minimal movement also means he can’t even walk across the room under his own power. 

“Here, drink this. It’ll help keep your blood sugar up without being full of sugar like that Monster shit you Porters drink. And I need you to eat these too” Cross hands him a thermos and waits patiently for him to drink while holding two power bars. The drink is sweet and cold, with a faint trace of chocolate. He looks at Cross curiously as he sips.

“It’s a protein shake with chocolate. A lot of people nowadays have deficiencies, especially since so few go outside to get enough sun. For you, the extra protein will help your muscle fatigue and better acclimate your body to eating actual food,” they explain though it goes over Sam’s head. The energy drinks have always been enough and he’s never felt starving before. He’s full by the time the shake is gone and the power bars seem too much, but Cross insists all the same.

Sam finds himself lightly dozing the next few hours, never comfortable enough to find sleep despite the pain killers Cross had given him earlier. He supposes it’s another consequence of letting himself be run into the ground, to have an ache beneath his skin that wouldn’t go away.

So he finds some comfort in the sound of Cross knitting, the soft and constant swish almost like white noise in an otherwise silent room. Every few minutes he cracks an eye open just to watch their fingers work, quick and sure with the needles despite how complicated the loops looked. He can’t tell what the fabric is, but the bright purple and yellow colors are easy to make out through his own drugged haze.

“Why d’you knit?” Sam finally asks, the words tumbling out slurred together despite his best effort. Cross looks up from their lap, faint surprise painted on their face.

“Keeps me busy mostly. I’m a terrible fidgeter, I use to click pens nonstop and unsurprisingly, most people don’t like that. Also, I like making scarves from repurposed materials. You’d be surprised how much gets left out in the field,” they explain, pausing to lift their work for Sam to see. It’s maybe halfway done, an intricate pattern of yellow, purple, white and black.

“It’s called a herringbone pattern. Doesn’t last very long under Timefall since I don’t have any access to chiral coating. But it’s relaxing.”

Sam only grunts his assent, eyes drifting closed once again.

~~

The second and third day pass like the first, with Cross doling out protein packed food and liquids for him to eat. They seem happy with his progress when he can finally sit up without help, though walking across the room is still hard. So by the morning of the fourth day, Sam is restless and desperate to do  _ something, anything. _ But Cross shoots him down before he can even ask, their voice firm and glare like steel.

“Absolutely not. You’re a swell guy, but I don’t want to spend another week here. You snore when you sleep,”

So instead, Cross offers to teach him how to knit with a pair of needles fabricated from upstairs and a small pile of reclaimed fabric that came from an old porter suit.

“Okay, so just make a knot like this, kinda like a pretzel. Yes, the tail is okay. You need the length anyway… see, you got it. Now you’re going to ‘cast on’ like this, just watch my hands. Alright now take your other needle and thread like this. Don’t get frustrated, mistakes are going to happen. Okay noooow… just keep doing that. Easy enough.”

Cross is definitely an okay person. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So fun fact, Cross started as a carbon copy of another medic character who also knits and tbh it's my favorite trait of theirs. I've also been playing around with the idea of making other small fics where Cross pops up. I definitely want to write something with Fragile because my girl deserves the world, okay?


	5. Defender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam learns how Cross feels about BRIDGES, and why R&R is important in this line of work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: JSE is almost done with his play through of DS and I... am very scared. Poor Sam needs a vacation at this point. Maybe an indefinite one.  
And man, I got possessed when finishing this. I dunno where the grove came from but wow I hope it keeps coming back because I'd like to do more fic! And actually finish it!

“Start Log: Medical Treatment of Sam Porter Bridges, day five. Date iiiiiis… I’ll come back to that. We are nearing the end of Sam’s mandatory rest period, though I still recommend another week at minimum. The patient has slowly been regaining muscle coordination and reports pain level at a 5. He no longer requires painkillers, but clearly still finds himself uncomfortable. I will respect his decision to forgo anymore painkillers however, as this positively indicates no possible addiction. 

This is only the second patient I’ve worked with who has DOOMS, and I theorize that the condition further affects the patient's recovery and affliction. I believe his both causes strong reactions to illness and sustained injury, but also causes expedited recovery not average for a human. 

I have also noted he often has mild delusions and nightmares occasionally, concerning his BB or during sleep. He does not present any suicidal or homicidal tendencies, which I will attribute to his low DOOMS level. 

The robotic hands BRIDGES designed for me to use while tending to Sam seem to prevent causing him harm via contact. He still presents as highly nervous and uncomfortable when his space is invaded, understandable, but the hands themselves don’t cause hives. I’ll make a formal suggestion that all medical personnel be fitted with these not just for Sam, but for any other patient. The extra limbs are extremely useful where multiple tools come into play during a procedure.”

Cross pauses as they pace around the room, the sound of the running shower running in the background. They glance back at the clouded door, making sure Sam is sitting and not standing again. Cross doesn’t want a repeat of yesterday, where Sam nearly cracked his head on the wall and had to be embarrassingly lifted up because his legs gave out. Pleasingly, Sam has listened this time so Cross goes back to their recording. 

“Hopefully after this assignment, Sam will take his own life more seriously. Though he doesn’t present any suicidal symptoms he seems… dissatisfied with life. I’m hoping it’s just because of the state of the world.”

Just as Cross taps their cuff to end the transmission, a low beep signals an incoming chiral projection. The image of Die-Hardman shimmers into existence, wavering as the signal comes in and out. He wastes no time, a glance thrown to the occupied shower then fixating onto Cross a second later.

“How is he?” he demands, eyes narrowed behind the mask. Cross scowls back at him, taking a step back and crossing their arms.

“I literally just finished a fucking log, you could have waited two minutes to listen to it. But since you’ve decided to drop in, unannounced, he’s recovering. He’s far better than when I arrived.”

“Enough to go out now, right?”

“Wha-... no. Absolutley fucking not. Whatever it is, it can wait until the week is up,” Cross spits, nails digging into their arm and drawing bright red marks.

“We need to get those KNOTS reconnected and time is running out-”

“I don’t care if the moon is falling, he needs to fucking rest and regain his strength or he could die in the field.”

“He’s a repatria-”

“He’s a goddamn person you fucker! He’s not a machine that can keep going infinitely! And so fucking what if he’s a repatriate? We have no idea what kind of stress that causes him, or what could happen if reviving doesn’t fix the problem. You cannot keep running him into the ground like this,” Cross snarls, throwing their hands up and stomping around the projection of Die-Hardman. 

“Cross-”

“Don’t fucking try me,” Cross starts, pointing a finger at Die-Hardman. “I’ve seen how BRIDGES tosses it’s employees to the fucking side when they’re used up, I’ve seen what you do the ones who don’t last. I’m not letting you pull this shit again. You let him rest and don’t fucking call back until the week is done.”

Cross almost wishes Die-Hardman would argue back, but he only disappears back into thin air. 

“Fucker,” they spit one last time before slumping in a chair, just as the shower turns off. 

~~

Sam is viscerally aware that Cross is talking about him, their voice muffled through the shower but clear enough to guess the tone. Cross sounds pleasant enough when they talk normally, though hearing them dictate a log is weird and Sam can’t explain why. Maybe it’s the overtly professional tone he’s come to associate with intrusive scientists.

It’s just as he’s about to turn off the shower that he hears the ring of a chiral projection, and Die-Hardman’s voice rings out. He waits because, honestly, he doesn’t want to deal with anyone else from BRIDGES right now. It’s enough that he has to share the room with Cross who while nice, it still isn’t ideal.

Then he hears Cross swear and yell at Die-Hardman, their voice dripping with an anger that surprises him. 

“He’s a goddamn person you fucker! He’s not a machine that can keep going infinitely! And so fucking what if he’s a repatriate? We have no idea what kind of stress that causes him, or what could happen if reviving doesn’t fix the problem. You cannot keep running him into the ground like this.” 

It’s… weird to hear Cross say that. They sound sincere, concerned for him personally and he isn’t sure how to process that. He’s never heard a medic sound so invested.

“Don’t fucking try me. I’ve seen how BRIDGES tosses it’s employees to the fucking side when they’re used up, I’ve seen what you do the ones who don’t last. I’m not letting you pull this shit again. You let him rest and don’t fucking call back until the week is done.”

Sam hears no response from Die-Hardman and instead only the faint sound that signal his chiral projection has vanished. Sam can’t parse the meaning behind the words because clearly there’s some baggage there, some beef Cross has that they won’t let go. 

So Sam finally steps out of the shower to see Cross slumped over in a chair, staring up at the ceiling and bright red marks on their arms. They don’t cast him a look until he sits on the bed and is half way clothed, their expression tight.

“I don’t suppose you didn’t hear anything?” they ask, sounding exhausted from the earlier rage.

“I don’t think I’ve met anyone else with the balls to yell at him. Sounds like you two have issues,” Sam comments and Cross replies with a bitter laugh.

“That’s for fucking sure. It’s been like this since I joined up with BRIDGES. We have pretty fucking opposite ideas of ethical work regulations,” Cross says, and suddenly sadness seems to pull at their whole body. They seem so much older and more tired all of a sudden, as if Timefall had washed over them.

“You aren’t the first Porter I’ve tended to and you won’t be the last. I’m here because I want to help but… I’ve seen too many people just die in the field because of how BRIDGES fucking works them. Kids just barely turned 18 who got ambushed by MULES or BT’s, people dying from the common cold because their immune system is so shot it can’t even combat it. I’ve helped Corpse Disposal and I’ve burned bodies myself. And BRIDGES? They’ll put on a show and dance to pay their respects but it doesn’t matter to them. It’s all about the end goal for them.”

Cross finally turns to look at Sam face-to-face, anger blazing in their grey eyes.

“I’m tired of watching the same thing happen over and over Sam. Don’t let them use you like they’ve used the others.”

~~

On the final day, Cross finally clears Sam for duty with reluctance. It feels good to finally walk without Cross looming over his shoulder, to feel his body work without protest and ache. Even BB seems happy to finally be back in action, cooing softly as it twirls within it’s container. It’s less that he relishes going straight back to work, but because it means he’ll be free from constant prying eyes and observation. Though there’s a twinge in gut at saying goodbye, only lifted by telling himself it won’t be the last time he sees Cross.

Cross sees him, both of them standing at the mouth of the distro center and looking out on a field washed in sunlight. They're waiting for their Porter guide back towards Mountain Knot city, and Sam has a delivery back out into prepper land. Cross holds out their wrist with the cuff, nodding towards Sams own.

“Here, make a Strand with me. If we’re ever in the same area again and you need help, just give me a call.”

Their cuffs pulse briefly as they meet, casting a cool gleam across their suits. Displays pop up for them both, each showing the traded information. 

“Be careful out there okay? Don’t make me come and nanny you again,” Cross says with a slight smile and Sam can’t help when his mouth twitches upward. It definitely won’t be the last time he sees Cross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I just want to say again, thank you so much to everyone who was commented on this and given me kudos and even bookmarked this little self-indulgent fic. This is my highest rated fic of all time and I'm so happy y'all like my stuff this much. I hope to share more of my stuff in the future, and I hope y'all keep coming back for more. This fandom is so fresh, and I can't wait to see it take off from here.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I subsist off pasta and comments, that's all. <3


End file.
